


Thawing Out

by lebearpolar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dean/Cas Tropefest 5k Mid-Winter Challenge, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lebearpolar/pseuds/lebearpolar
Summary: For Dean Winchester, it feels like winter will never end. A chance encounter with his grumpy neighbor Castiel may not make spring come early, but it may well bring some much-needed sunshine into both their lives.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2017 Dean/Cas Tropefest Mid-winter 5k. Thanks to muse and Jojo for running this awesome challenge!

Dean Winchester is so fucking sick of snow.

Look, he likes snow as much as the next person. The first winter snowfall always brings back rose-tinted memories of snowball fights, sledding, steaming mugs of hot cocoa.

But this is not the first snowfall. Far from it. It's more like the tenth (although it might as well be the hundredth) and goddammit, enough already. It's almost March. Spring is only days away, although you'd never know it from the icy hellscape outside Dean's window. The most recent winter storm brought that always fun mix of rain, sleet, a little snow, and then more rain, resulting in a slick, crunchy layer of treacherous ice that covers absolutely _everything_. If you're not slipping and sliding over it, you're crashing down through it and soaking through your only decent pair of dress shoes.

Suffice it to say, Dean is not in a good mood by the time he walks into the lobby of his apartment building. It's blessedly warm in here; he has a suspicion that someone's recently cranked the heat. He cautiously unwinds his scarf, wincing as the rough wool scrapes his cheek, rubbed raw by the buffeting wind outside. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror by the elevators; he'd think he was sunburned if his teeth weren't still chattering. “Fuck this fucking snow,” he mutters to himself as he attempts to pry off his gloves with stiff, uncooperative fingers.

The lobby is small enough that Dean is suddenly blasted with cold air as someone else enters the building. He quickly turns away, hunching in on himself until the door squelches shut a few seconds later. He looks up to see a guy who looks vaguely familiar stomp inside, growling muffled obscenities (Dean can't hear the words, but he figures from the guy's stony expression that they're far from PG) as he shakes snow out of his hair like an particularly pissed-off dog. The guy makes his way over to the elevators, grumbling quietly all the way.

“Is it spring yet?” Dean says, a feeble attempt at a joke if there ever was one.

“Clearly not,” the guy snaps.

“Yeah, it was a – a joke...” Dean trails off lamely. He's only just now getting a good look at the other man, and his first impression is a contradictory one. The man is young, probably late twenties, and is sharply dressed in a suit and tie, all slightly squished under an over-sized parka. But his dark hair is riotous, sticking up in all directions, and his bright blue eyes are burning with a kind of cold fire that makes Dean really wish he hadn't just made that stupid joke.

“Uh,” Dean says, “so, we're neighbors, huh? I'm Dean Winchester, in 3B.” He sticks out his hand, all the while marveling at his daring. But hey, it's nice to be neighborly, even to really angry dudes who just blew in from a snowstorm. And also (he's noticing more and more the longer they stand so close to each other) the stranger is _really_ good-looking.

The other guy stares at Dean's hand, as though he's not quite sure what to do with it. But a moment later he reaches out and takes it briefly, biting out, “Castiel Novak. 5E.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Dean, attempting a friendly smile through his still-chattering teeth. It doesn't go so well.

Castiel nods curtly. Before Dean can say anything else, the elevator finally dings and opens. Castiel steps right in and jabs at the button for the fifth floor; caught off-guard, Dean barely slips in before the doors close on him. He hits the third floor button, and endures another minute of awkward silence (he is very aware of the fact that his teeth are still, _still_ , chattering) before the elevator stops and he exits.

“See you around –” The elevator doors clang shut, leaving Dean to stare once again at his own shivering, red-faced reflection in the burnished surface.

Shaking his head, he trudges toward his apartment. He only fumbles with the keys a little (how is he still so cold?) before he finally makes it inside.

It isn’t until Dean’s curled up on the couch under three blankets, burning his tongue on hot cocoa (okay, that one winter tradition hasn’t lost its charm) that he finally feels warm.

* * *

At precisely nine-thirty in the morning on Saturday, Dean is awakened by the buzzing of his doorbell. Mumbling incoherently to himself, he levers himself out of bed and stumbles bleary-eyed to the door. He catches a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror, and quickly flattens down his sleep-mussed hair before opening the door to find the absolute last person he'd have expected: Castiel, his grumpy neighbor from the other day.

“Uh,” he says. “Hi?”

The plastered-on smile that Castiel was wearing abruptly slides off his face. “Oh, no,” he says. “Did I wake you up?”

“Of course not,” Dean croaks. Castiel looks far from convinced, but Dean stages a coughing fit to cover his tracks. It totally works. “So, uh,” he says after coming up for air, “what's up?”

“I wanted to apologize for being so rude to you the other day,” says Castiel. “So I made you scones.” He holds out a large red Tupperware container like a peace offering.

“Wow, that's...” Dean wouldn't know how to react to this at any time of day, much less three minutes after waking up, so he says the only thing he can think of: “Come on in, dude.”

Castiel follows him to the kitchen, where he sets the Tupperware down on the island. While he's fiddling with the box, Dean stretches surreptitiously and stifles a yawn behind his hand.

“I'm sorry I woke you –” Cas says awkwardly, but Dean waves off his apology.

“So let's try some of these scones, huh?”

Ignoring Castiel's halfhearted protestations, he reaches into the container and snags one for himself and one for Cas. He takes a bite and – oh, holy _shit_ that's good.

“Holy shit,” Dean says through his mouthful of scone. “These are amazing.”

“Really?” Castiel says anxiously. “They're nothing special, I just followed the recipe –”

“This is _heavenly_ ,” Dean says, finishing his scone in a just a few bites. He pulls out another scone and devours that one, too, barely pausing to breathe. He looks up at Cas, who is standing there, untouched scone in hand, watching Dean with a mixture of disgust and amusement on his face.

Dean covers his mouth and swallows. “You made these?” he asks Castiel, who shakes himself and takes a bite of his own scone.

“Well, yeah,” Cas says, shrugging. “I like to bake.”

“And you’re awesome at it.” Dean claps a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Want some coffee?”

“Actually,” says Castiel, sounding surprised at himself, “I’d love some.”

* * *

The temperature dips far below zero on Sunday night, and by Monday morning everything in sight is covered in ice.

It's days like this that make Dean especially thankful that his baby's safely tucked away in a parking garage a few blocks over. The rent is outrageous, but at least he's not that guy over there, sawing away at his iced-over windows with a plastic scraper.

Dean narrows his eyes. Doesn't he know that dude? A second glance confirms it: it's Castiel, his not-actually-such-an-asshole of a neighbor. As Dean watches, torn between the obvious choice of continuing on his way, and that goddamn neighborly instinct that's urging him to go over and help out, the ice scraper literally breaks in half in Castiel's hands. Castiel stares down at the two pieces of cheap plastic, and the broken, defeated expression on his face makes Dean's mind up for him.

“Hey man,” he calls, heading over. “Can I help with anything?”

Castiel looks up at him, gaze strangely unfocused. “You again,” he says, almost to himself.

“Look, if you don't want my help –”

“No, no!” Castiel shakes his head, dislodging a few crystals of ice, and when he looks at Dean again, his gaze is clearer, focused. Dean is once again taken aback by the vividness of those eyes. “I'm sorry, it's just – you've caught me on a bad day again.” He holds up the broken scraper, as though to prove his point.

“It's cool, man, we've all been there.” Dean smiles. “Uh, so, I'll take the brush part and you take the scraper part?” Cas hesitates for a second, then hands Dean one half of the contraption.

Ten minutes later, with the heat and defroster in Castiel's car on full blast, they've finally succeeded in clearing away enough of the wintry crap for Cas to be able to see out all of his windows. There's still a definitely-illegal layer of ice on the hood, but there's no way they can break through it without heavier machinery, so it'll just have to stay for the time being.

Dean and Castiel stand side by side on the sidewalk, admiring their handiwork. “And now I have to drive in this mess,” Castiel says. He still sounds pretty down, but not quite as hopeless as he'd looked earlier.

“This weather can't last forever,” Dean says bracingly. Castiel raises his eyebrows at him, as though he can see through Dean's bullshit optimism. “Hey, tell you what,” Dean continues. “Swing by my place after work, and I'll make you dinner.”

“Really?” Cas sounds genuinely surprised. “Why?”

“Dude, you made me the most heavenly scones I've ever tasted. I can't make you dinner to say thank you? I'm a good cook, I swear,” he adds, wondering if doubt over his cooking abilities is causing Castiel's hesitancy.

“But you just helped me clean off my car,” Cas says, still clearly confused.

“Just say yes,” says Dean. To head off any further protestations, he starts walking away, grinning at the bewilderment still on Cas's face. Cas shouts something that's carried away by the bitter wind before it gets to Dean. “See you at eight!” Dean shouts back, waving.

* * *

Dean makes lasagna, because it’s easy and because he makes delicious lasagna. Cas apparently thinks so too; he practically inhaled his first piece, and is now savoring each bite of his second as though it’s the last thing he’ll ever eat.

Dinner has been a surprising success so far. Dean has learned that Castiel has a degree in Anthropology, loves cats but is unfortunately, horribly allergic to them, and just so happens to work in the building right next to Dean’s.

“I have an idea that you’re not going to like,” Dean says now, putting down his fork.

Cas looks up expectantly, but doesn’t stop eating.

“Why don’t you do what I do, and leave your car in a garage until the weather gets better?”

Cas swallows with difficulty. “Then how would I get to work?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

Dean shrugs. “Well, I take the subway –”

Cas is already shaking his head. “I don’t like public transportation,” he says. “It’s cramped and smelly and there are just so many _people_. And I’m horrible at navigating.”

“Okay, how’s this?” Dean gestures with his fork for emphasis. “You and I work practically next door – why don’t we commute together? I know the stops, and we can keep each other company.”

Castiel frowns, pushing his last piece of lasagna around with his fork. “Are you sure?” he asks finally, his voice quiet.

“Absolutely,” says Dean.

“All right, then.” Castiel smiles. “I’m in.”

* * *

It becomes routine more quickly than Dean could have imagined, commuting with Cas. They meet up in the lobby around 7:45 every morning, make their way down the street to the subway, and spend their seven-stop ride sitting or standing together, talking.

They start their first commute together complaining about the foul weather, and enter their apartment building at the end of the day discussing their respective grade-school bullies. Dean can hardly believe how easy it is to talk to Cas. He can’t remember the last time he shared so much with someone who wasn’t Sam or Jess.

After a few days, their twice-daily commute doesn’t seem like enough time together. Dean invites Cas over for dinner again, and then again. Cas invites Dean to his own apartment, where he whips up a mess of a meal and, for dessert, the most decadent chocolate cake Dean’s ever tasted.

And all the while, the bitter wind continues to blow, and the city is deluged again and again with ice and snow.

On a Saturday night two weeks after Dean and Cas first met, Dean is falling asleep in front of the TV when the power abruptly goes out. He blinks awake and looks out the window, where snow is swirling against a black sky. In the distance, he hears a thunderclap.

“Great,” Dean mutters, unwinding himself from his blanket. “Fucking thundersnow.”

He uses the light on his phone to get to the hall closet and unearth the motley collection of flashlights that Sam always makes fun of him for having, but have come in handy time and time again. Honestly, you can never have too many flashlights.

Dean is rummaging in a different closet for matches and candles when he hears a shaky knock on the door. He finds Castiel on the other side of it, clutching a baseball bat and looking distinctly disheveled.

“Cas?”

Castiel slips into the apartment and shuts the door quickly behind him. Dean watches him, concerned. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yes.” Cas takes a deep breath. “My – uh – my phone died, and then the power went out so I couldn’t charge it, and I couldn’t find any flashlights, so I had to find my way here in the dark –”

“Okay, okay, calm down.” Dean places a hand on Cas’s shoulder and guides him into the living room, where a lantern on the coffee table illuminates the room in weak lamplight. “You couldn’t find a flashlight, but you found a baseball bat?”

Cas shrugs, dropping onto the couch with a muffled thump. “I keep it in my bedroom. Never hurts to be prepared.”

Dean shakes his head, bemused. “Guess not. C’mon, give me a hand.”

They’ve just finished putting out candles on every surface, bathing the apartment in a warm orange glow at odds with the lashing snow outside, when the apartment lights flicker back on. Dean and Castiel blink at each other in the sudden brightness.

“I guess… I’ll go home then,” Cas says. He doesn’t sound happy about the prospect. He makes to stand up, but Dean reaches out and grabs his hand.

“Or,” he says, looking determinedly at Cas’s hand instead of up at his face, “you could… stay?”

Cas is quiet for a moment, and then tugs gently at Dean’s hand. Dean raises his eyes, hesitantly, to Cas’s face. Cas smiles, and Dean finds himself smiling back.

“Okay,” says Cas.

* * *

Spring is here, supposedly, although it doesn’t feel like it. The temperature rarely rises above freezing, it snows every other day, and the city streets are still hidden beneath layers of slush and ice.

Dean and Cas walk to the subway holding hands. The train is packed, so they stand squished together, holding onto the same pole. Every so often Cas closes his eyes, clearly uncomfortable at the press of people around him. Dean squeezes Cas’s hand in comfort, and Cas squeezes back gratefully.

They make their way out of the oppressive underground heat into the (for the moment) blissful cold of the street. They reach Castiel’s office building first, and duck under the building’s awning to escape the wind.

“It’s supposed to be fifty degrees next week,” Dean says, shivering.

Cas rolls his eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“It is spring now,” Dean points out. He squints up at the grey sky. “It has to get warm at some point.”

Castiel shrugs. “I’m not too worried about it, to be honest,” he says. He kisses Dean on the cheek, and turns to go into his building. “Have a good day, Dean.”

“You too,” says Dean. “Dinner and a movie tonight?”

“Only if you cook,” says Cas.

“And you’ll make dessert?”

“Of course. I was thinking apple turnovers.”

Dean’s stomach rumbles. “See you in a bit.”

Cas waves, and disappears into the building. Dean sets off down the street, gloved hands shoved into his pockets. Above him, the grey sky lightens, and a single beam of sunlight breaks through the clouds.


End file.
